And so...

Um.

So.

I'm sort of... moving.

Back to Michigan.

Yeah.

You see, it's been a possibility for some time now, and it just so happened that a job opened up at my old museum and so? I am moving.

Over Thanksgiving weekend.

I KNOW.

Basically, I am freaking the hell out trying to figure out how I am going to get everything done, get everything packed, and get everything taken care of in LESS THAN TWO WEEKS, and these panic attacks are not my particular shade of pink.

Anyone want to sublet my apartment? Lots of closet space!

FREAKING OUT.

What I am most happy about is that I am not leaving this great city because I don't like it anymore - quite the contrary. I love living here, I love working here (even though the job might be lacking), and I love being here.

It's just...

I've lived here for over five years and for some time now, it's been clear to me that I've reached the end of the relationship. I love DC... but I'm not in love with DC anymore.

Like any relationship, moving here and living here on my own has transformed who I am. I left Michigan in the summer of 2002, and at only 22 years old, far from independent. I had always had roommates, always had a set of friends, and things were always planned for me.

I moved here alone. I didn't know a soul. It was... sobering.

I started grad school and made a few good friends, but it was my internship at the National Museum of American History that really got the ball rolling. I made friends there that have become friends for life, and to be completely honest, I really wasn't expecting that!


Now, over five years later, I have a bank of memories - favorite moments, amazing friends, and great roommates.

But what I need most is a new phase in my life, and this is my solution.

And while I'll most likely be on hiatus for a bit later in the month, I won't be quitting this here blog. I have to brainstorm a new name, however, and while "Detroit Donut" rings a nice, smoggy bell, I don't think that it would be the best fit.

I wonder if just "The Donut" is taken... Any ideas for a new name?

I have loved blogging in this city, and I hope that you'll continue to read once I relocate to the charming Midwest.

I promise that people there will generate just as many stories for me as they do here.

Does anyone have any boxes?

Or beer?

Left Over

I love leftovers. Love love love them. Some meals are even better reheated, and it's always such a massive relief to trudge home from work and find last night's chicken or Saturday's takeout from La Loma (hmmm, I haven't been to La Loma in some time...).

When I make my mom's spaghetti sauce, I freeze about half of it in one-portion baggies. When in need, I defrost it as the pasta is boiling away and dinner is served within minutes. Plus, it's comfort food at its finest, my mom's spaghetti sauce. That it is.

But as much as I love my reheated Thai food, it is time to dump it. My stomach is PISSED at me and I am not relishing the idea of being confined to the bathroom on my day off, so I won't be eating it for lunch. Again. Plus, I bought a half-gallon of apple cider at Eastern Market yesterday, and half of it is gone. Maybe that's another reason my insides are rebelling.

Also, that's enough of my inner workings for one day. Sorry.

I Love This Show So Much

Watch the whole episode, Greenzo, here!

Lord of the Freaking Flies

Where in the name of hell did all of these flies come from?

I have killed five in the last twenty minutes, and all in my bedroom. They are relentless. When I came back from the kitchen, one had re-spawned and was flying around again.

Mutant, eternal, big, fat, disgusting freaking flies. IN MY HOUSE.

I don't know where or how they're getting in, but I am NOT amused. They are absolutely huge and have red eyes. Red eyes! They're devil flies! I am all worked up now, from chasing them around the apartment, and I think that I overextended my arm (or my shoulder or whatever) while valiantly swatting the air with a newspaper.

It could be worse, I'm sure. It could be sprickets.

Oh my LORD, there's another one. Excuse me.

Are You Pondering What I'm Pondering?

"I think so, Brain, but can the Gummi Worms really live in peace with the Marshmallow Chicks?"

Hehe.

I'm thinking:

~ Maybe I should shower. It is three in the afternoon, after all.

~ If I do shower, do I want to go get some coffee?

~ Will we actually get a new dishwasher from our landlord, or will I be hand-washing dishes after Thanksgiving?

~ What smells like burning?

~ How many times can I watch "Tracy Does Conan" before it gets old? (Answer: INFINITY)

~ Should I have had something other than Thai food for breakfast?

~ How awesome am I for starting my Christmas shopping already?

~ Seriously, what is that smell?

~ Why are my feet always so cold?

Yeah, I need coffee.

BLEH

Oh man. This morning so far? BLEH.

I woke up at 5:00 instead of 6:15, and couldn't get back to sleep.

My upstairs BITCH of a neighbor is secretly out to get me, I think, because she covertly fucks with the plumbing when I'm in the shower. "Sink on, sink off. Sink on, sink off. Sink on, SINK OFF!" And I'm all, "Warm, cold! Warm, COLD. Warm, I'M A GONNA CUT YOU, BITCH!"

Okay, so maybe she doesn't do it on purpose, but the timing is very bizarre. Also, she walks like an overweight elephant, vacuums at 1 a.m., and runs the dishwasher at midnight.

Hmmm, how else did my morning suck? I poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand! That was pretty.

My internet connection kept dropping, so I shut down my pretty laptop in disgust and had to shudder check the weather channel instead (I used to love the Weather Channel, until I got the laptop, that is. Instant gratification!). Which meant that I had to put on a robe. Which is obnoxious when all I want to do is prance around naked as long as possible.

Naked prancing!

The saving grace was my walk to work. I shunned the metro in exchange for a nice stroll down Independence Avenue. It was crisp, it was deliciously chilly... basically, it was an awesome start to the day. I had my light jacket and my scarf, a little pair of gloves, and I was set. I walked from my apartment on the hill to L'Enfant Plaza, and it was glorious.

I love this weather because I don't sweat through my clothes just by glancing at them. No more arm sweat, back sweat, crack sweat, or feet sweat.

Too much information?

Sorry. I'm small, but I sweat a lot. I can't do much about it but wear tank tops in the summer and preventative undershirts in the winter because even though the weirdos on "Doctor 90210" get Botox injected into their armpits to alleviate the sweating, the idea of a GIANT NEEDLE makes me light-headed.

(Hmmm, maybe if they knocked me out first...)

(And how ridiculous is Doctor Rey? His karate? Amazing.)

Of course, talk to me later when it's pissing down sleet, and I'm sure that I'll be singing a different tune.

So right, I walked my sweet ass to L'Enfant Plaza. Great. But then I got to work and things started to, well... suck more.

I am currently:

~ wearing my coat AND scarf.
~ wrapped, towel-like, in a blanket, from my waist to my feet.
~ considering putting on my gloves because I am having to stop work every few minutes to SIT ON THEM because of the utter freezing-ness.

It is SO COLD in here. I want to tape up the air vent, because it seems to be set to "arctic chill," rather than "toasty warm fireplace feel," but the building manager is a complete psycho and I know that she would flip out if she spotted it.

Not so bad, really. But IT GETS BETTER.

Feeling hungry, I headed to Au Bon Pain, and the dickweed in directly ahead of me took the VERY LAST cinnamon scone and I very much wanted to punch him in the neck. Also, is it too much to ask to make extras of the pumpkin spice muffins? I mean, everyone loves them, apparently, because they are always sold out, and I just want to try one once since everyone raves. But I guess NOT.

(Heh. My spell-checker did not approve of the word, "dickweed." It suggested instead: "dick weed," "duckweed," "dickered," or "chickweed." Chickweed?)

So I bought an almond croissant instead and upon the first bite, discovered a ton of sweet GOO in the middle. What the hell is that goopy stuff? Super gross, and no, thank you.

So that was a nice waste of $2.40.

But? It's already nooner. So I shall calm myself down and look forward to Thai Chili with Amanda later.

Wishing I Had Sent Out Real Invitations. In the MAIL.

You know what would be awesome? And helpful?

If people would freaking respond to my Thanksgiving evite.

This is THANKSGIVING, people, not an impromptu high school kegger. Things need to be planned and food needs to be purchased, and I swear I am going to scream because I am a crazy perfectionist and I want everything to be LOVELY and NICE and TASTY.

Thanksgiving is only two weeks away, so help me out here. PLEASE.

NOT YOURS.
If you don't rsvp soon.

Duvet Chic

I hadn't read Go Fug in a while, but something unknown and unseen pulled me there this morning. Perhaps it was the possibility of my pulling a Maria von Trapp with my duvet, as Patti LaBelle has obviously done here:

(from Go Fug)

And here's my duvet:

Huh. Who knew that Ikea was designing dresses for the stars now?

Wines

So I met Old Roommate Jenny at Tortilla Coast this evening, and we had some drinks. A few. And since it is apparently my m.o. to make a call to at least one of my parents when plastered,* I called my mom.

Lady: Hello?

Heather: HELLO LADY PERSON!

Lady: Well, hello baby person!

Heather: I HAD SOME LARGE MARGARITAS AT THE BAR!

Lady: I had some large wines at the bar!

Heather: You win. That was awesome. I celebrate your wines.

And it went on like this for a while.

And I kind of want some wines now.

*The best evidence I have of this phenomenon is a drunken call to my dad after my boss's wedding. I had had my share of wines as well. We talked for 55 minutes. And when I asked my mom about it later, she swears that he never even questioned my sobriety. And there was slurring, people. Lots and lots of slurring. A proud moment for the Donut. PROUD.

Necessities

Superfluous books!

In my jackassitude, I forgot to cancel not one, but TWO different main selections from my book club. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue, as I have never been disappointed with any of my books from QPB, but as I am trying to save money, this is kind of crappy for me.

But sending the books back will cost me money, and I really don't see the point in spending money to NOT have books, so I've decided to keep them.

Then again, do I NEED more books? No, I do not need more books. In fact, when Awesome Old Roommate Jenny and I went to Shenandoah the other weekend, I informed her that we would be having a conversation much like the following, and she was instructed to reply as such:

Heather: Oooh, Jenny, there's an awesome used book store in Front Royal. We have to go!

Jenny: No, you have ten trillion and twelve books. You don't need any more.

Heather: But they have classics for ten cents. TEN CENTS, JEN. TEN CENTS. TEN.

Jenny: You don't need books. You need to save money.

Heather: But it's RIGHT THERE. PLEASE?

Jenny: No, and if you don't shut your face, we're not getting sundaes from McDonald's.

Heather: I hate you.

...

Don't be surprised if you receive one of these beauties as a gift. Is what I'm saying.